


Barton and Bishop's Game and Grocer's

by Amuly



Series: Marvel's 1872 [3]
Category: Marvel 616, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Western, Background Relationships, Background Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Friendship, Gen, Gothic, Horror, Male-Female Friendship, Mentor/Protégé, Mentors, Western, background wanda maximoff/carol danvers, marvel 1872 - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 04:20:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3964168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amuly/pseuds/Amuly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the town of Rescue in the year 1872, Clint Barton and partner Kate Bishop run the town convenience store. One morning, out on what should be a normal hunt, the two run into... something, in the pre-dawn darkness. Or, worse: nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barton and Bishop's Game and Grocer's

Movement out of the corner of his eye. _There_ , behind the shelf of baking supplies. Quiet, stillness. _There_ , by the stationary. Clint's hands slipped under the counter, reaching for a weapon. Breathe in, breathe out. Follow the movement, don't look, don't give it away, and...

“ _Ow_!”

“Too slow, Bishop.”

“You're a cheating bastard!”

Clint snorted as he tucked his slingshot back under the cashier counter. Out from behind the shelves of fishing and hunting gear stepped Ms. Bishop, long brown hair bobbing as she rubbed furiously at her forehead. Clint grinned, leaning over the counter on his forearms. That was a nice-sized welt already forming, there.

“Language, young lady. And don't say such lies about my mother.”

Ms. Bishop pouted as she stomped across the store toward him. “I'll stop using language the day you do.” In one deft movement Ms. Bishop swung herself on top of the counter, leaning back against a display of penny sweets and knick-knacks. Clint scowled and pushed at her, trying and failing to keep his display organized. Ms. Bishop just grinned at him as she snatched up a sweet, popping it in her mouth. Clint jabbed a finger at her.

“That's coming out of your pay.”

"I'm taking it out of yours, then," Ms. Bishop teased. "Since my money started the place."

Clint squinted at her. "That's all paid back. It's mine now."

"And mine."

Clint rolled his eyes. "This is what I get for partnering with a nine year old."

Ms. Bishop pouted, which didn't help her case much. "I was fourteen when we went into business together. That's old enough to be wed."

"Oh so you'd've preferred that?" Clint teased her, raising his eyebrows.

Ms. Bishop shuddered and jabbed a mean right-hook into his arm. "Shut it."

Sighing, Clint glanced around the shop. No customers in for an hour, and none likely to come this late in the day. He glanced out the storefront window, scanning the road. No one heading their way. They were all probably in Maximoff's saloon by now--or van Dyne's brothel. Clint nodded at Ms. Bishop. "Sweep up. We're good for the day. Gotta turn in early, anyway."

They closed up the shop and headed outside, Ms. Bishop copying Clint's relaxed posed as he surveyed the town from their shop's porch.

“I'm coming with you, right?” Ms. Bishop's eyes flickered nervously away from Clint's, tongue scraping over her buck-teeth. “I mean... you said. You promised.”

Clint sighed. Yeah, yeah. He had promised. Grabbing Ms. Bishop's head, Clint pulled her into a headlock, rubbed a noogie into too-much brown hair. Ms. Bishop laughed and struggled away, fighting to maintain a pout.

“I'm taking you. I promised.” Clint pulled his hat lower over his eyes, scanning the horizon. Evening light was best for him. Saw the furthest. Nothing to see right now, but that didn't stop him from looking. Just to make sure. “I'm heading out couple of hours before first light. You know when. If you ain't up, you ain't up. I'm not dragging you out of bed.”

“You won't need to,” Ms. Bishop promised breathlessly.

Clint rolled his eyes, shoved at her shoulder. Eyes bigger'n her stomach and about a foot left to grow—so he hoped, at least. It was a wonder he'd ever agreed to taking her in. Then again, if it wasn't him, it might've been someone with less pure intentions.

Ms. Bishop had washed up in Rescue about a year ago, same as so many of them. She'd been running from something—Clint found out later it was a rich dad and arranged marriage, back in New York, New York—and all on her own. She could handle herself, but not as much as she thought, and less than she should. She was something else with a bow, something Clint had never seen in another white person besides himself and his brother, much less a girl. So, like the sucker he was, he'd taken her in. He'd only had a one-bedroom room he rented from Ms. van Dyne's establishment at the time but it'd been enough to put a roof over Ms. Bishop's head and give her at least one square a day. And it saved her from less savory folk, less savory work. Clint thought that mattered something, even if Ms. Bishop liked to say she'd do anything to get away from New York.

And then the damned buck-toothed rich girl had proven her worth. Not just at hunting and trapping: she had that down in spades, but Clint was fine on that front on his own. No, she proved her worth in business sense. “Ac-u-men”, she called it. Little rich girl. She'd convinced Clint to open up a shop, taught him how to take out a loan, made deals with Mr. Maximoff to run supplies, Mr. Stark to sell his more mass-produceable inventions through them. And suddenly Clint found himself with a store of his own, living in an apartment above it, being a respected, contributing member of the community.

And with a neighbor in that apartment above his shop. A buck-toothed kid with too much brown hair and too much damn smarts to have washed up in the ass-end of nowhere, Rescue. But she was here, and he was here, and damned if they didn't form a good team. And Clint... Clint could keep her safe, make sure no old men in town got that look their eye. He felt pretty good about that.

“I'm hitting the saloon. You,” Clint jabbed a finger at her, “hit the hay.”

Ms. Bishop made a face at him, but headed for the back stairs. Clint wondered if she'd actually go to bed now, or if she'd be off, on her own adventures for the evening. He wasn't too concerned either way.

When he strode into the saloon, the place was already hopping. Long, hot day made for lots of thirsty customers. He tilted his hat at Ms. Maximoff behind the bar, then to Ms. Danvers, who was perched possessively on a barstool at the end. Sheriff Rogers was in his usual spot, but Deputy Wilson wasn't. Clint scanned the room, not noticing him anywhere about. Must be off on official business somewhere else—or maybe just went home early with a girl on his arm. Meanwhile, Sheriff Rogers' arm was well-occupied by Mr. Stark, smiling that charming smile of his. Clint almost stepped in to save their poor Sheriff, but then he noticed the way Sheriff Rogers wasn't so much moving away, and wasn't scowling nearly as much as usual at Mr. Stark. Clint hummed to himself. Well then.

“Whiskey, and a whiskey." Clint held his fingers apart for the first, then closer together for the second. Ms. Maximoff winked at him as she set about fixing his drink. Digging into his pocket, Clint pulled out the appropriate coin, and a tip to spare. Clint cheersed her with the first drink, then Ms. Danvers with the second. "You in town today?" he asked her.

Ms. Danvers nodded, fingers wrapped around a glass of water. "Had lunch with Ms. van Dyne. Saw the brat this morning." The towel Ms. Maximoff had been cleaning glasses with got away from her, snapped in the direction of her wife. Ms. Danvers snorted and ducked her head. "Was planning on saying my hellos to the sheriff, but..." she tipped her drink in the direction of the other end of the bar. Clint turned just in time to watch Mr. Stark sliding up the Sheriff's arm, whispering something in his ear. The sheriff pushed him away, but Clint could see that fire-red blush easily enough even without the eyes he had. He snorted and nodded at Ms. Danvers.

"Looks like you'll be waiting a while for those hellos," he observed.

Ms. Danvers shrugged. "Another time. They'll get over the honeymoon phase eventually."

"That what that is?" Clint murmured, watching as Mr. Stark continued to flirt with an increasingly flustered, and frustrated, Sheriff. He frowned as the sheriff finally jumped up and laid some coin on the bar, hurrying away. Mr. Stark threw down some greenbacks--always flashing cash, he was--and followed unsubtly after him not thirty seconds later.

"Who ended up winning that pool?" Clint wondered.

Ms. Maximoff returned to their end of the bar, tucking Mr. Stark's greenbacks into her dress. "Ms. van Dyne, of course."

Clint nodded. "Of course."

Not an hour later Clint tipped his hat in farewell and started out of the saloon. Early morning ahead of him. He glanced towards the sheriff office as he passed it, listening for any tell-tale noises. Silenter than a tomb. They were likely out at Mr. Stark's place then, outside the town proper. Clint didn't blame them. Not many wound up at Mr. Stark's home, but rumor had it that it was a technological marvel, each corner of it stuffed with conveniences the likes of them wouldn't see for another hundred years. Not to mention it was far enough outside of town that they wouldn't have to worry about causing a ruckus. Clint snorted to himself as he stomped up the stairs to his home above his shop. The last whispers of sunlight snuffed out as his head hit his pillow. Stark's gas lamps flickered on, against the dark of night.

* * *

The morning was quiet. Almost preternaturally so. Clint sniffed, like he'd be able to smell trouble on the air. Smelled like dew and mist. Clint didn't think that was what trouble smelled like. But you never could tell. 

He stepped out of his apartment only to pull up short, half a step away from acquainting Ms. Bishop's face with his boot. 

"Damn it, Bishop," Clint grumbled. 

Ms. Bishop rubbed the sleep from her eyes, just a second off instantly alert. "Clint! I'm ready." Ms. Bishop tugged meaningfully at a rucksack under her that up until a minute ago had been acting as her pillow. 

Clint scratched the patch of hair in his chin ruefully. "You are at that. You up to the trek?" 

Ms. Bishop had the rucksack slung over her back and broad-brimmed hat straightened out where it had slipped down in sleep in a matter of seconds. Her bow stuck out the top of her rucksack, unstrung. She grinned up at Clint, daring him to argue. Clint just shook his head and tapped twice at that too-big hat, sending it sliding down over Ms. Bishop's eyes. She scowled, but was quick to follow after him as Clint took off, heading down the steps. 

The morning air was wet. Clint tasted it, nodding to himself. Good sign. It'd be happy hunting this morning. Clint sniffed and looked around, shiver going through him. That feeling was still itching between his shoulder blades. Morning like this, Clint wasn't sure who the hunting was good for. Could be him and Ms. Bishop. Could be something else. 

Clint hadn't realized he had stopped moving. Shaking himself, he told Ms. Bishop: "Let's go. Come on."

He ignored the sarcastic snort that followed him.  

They were heading west out of town, this morning. Stark's gas lamps led the parade out for a mile and a half every direction. Clint kept count as they walked down, unnaturally straight lines of the gas lamps imposing a false sense of order on the wild, wild west. When they passed the last gas lamp an half hour later, Clint grimaced. His count was one short. Automatically Clint reached out and slapped the last gas lamp as he passed it, a good luck ritual based in nothing and bringing less luck than that. Beside him, Ms. Bishop was cheery, low pony-tail swinging across her back with every buoyant step. Clint didn't mention his count to her.

Another mile out, and Clint felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise. His footsteps slowed as his sharp eyes scanned the darkness, looking for the slightest sign of... something. Anything. Ms. Bishop seemed unaware of his itch, his fear. She slowed when he did, but her hat swung around jovially toward him. "Here?" she whispered. Like this was a normal hunt. Like they were just going to put up and wait for some prey.

In the starlight, Clint made out a boulder in the distance. He nodded at it, tapped her arm once and brought it up to point the way. Ms. Bishop nodded and followed him, happily, easily. Ignorantly.

They settled behind the rock, Ms. Bishop already stringing her bow and waxing it efficiently. She was smart, and good, and strong. Clint's palms were wet with fear-sweat. He licked his lips, wiped under his nose, over his eyes. Peered through the darkness as he strung his own bow. Not much of a moon tonight, just a crescent. They should have done this under a hunter's moon. Ill-luck, out on the hunt in this little light.

All at once Clint realized why he was afraid. It was damn near eighty degrees out here already, and there weren't no crickets chirruping. Clint went very, very still. "Little bird," he whispered, one hand reaching out towards Ms. Bishop. "Stop."

Ms. Bishop's voice wasn't even a whisper. It was a heartbeat, it was the rushing of blood in her veins. “What is it?” she breathed.

Clint wrapped his fingers around her wrist and squeezed. They both went still, save for the _thrum thrum thrum_ of Ms. Bishop's heartbeat beneath Clint's fingers, faster than a jackrabbit's.

"Listen."

Ms. Bishop trembled. She shook her head. Her bow rattled in her hands, until she set it on the rock they were crouched behind. Clint's fingers flexed around his. His mind screamed at him, a primal fear of childhood, but he locked it down. He'd spent most of his adult life locking down that fear. He could outlast it.

Nothing, in the darkness. Nothing unlike any sort of nothing that the west ever was. No crickets, no coyotes, no rabbits, no rattlers. Birds should be up by now, picking off worms and grubs. And crickets. But nothing was moving in the earth beneath their feet. Nothing moving above their heads. It was nothing, in the darkness. Nothing.

And then. Something. Something of the nothing. Ms. Bishop started to shake beside him, teeth chattering loud in the absolute quiet. Clint tried to hold her still, but he was shaking like a damn leaf in a tornado, batted about by the nothing. The something. The creeping dark.

"Little bird," Clint whispered, every exhalation like a shotgun blast in the silence, "fly."

They took off running back east, back to the town: Ms. Bishop in front, Clint on her heels. She could fly, she could: young legs, knees and elbows and not much else tumbling forward at breakneck speeds. Clint barely kept up, but he managed.

She'd left her rucksack, but they both had their bows on them. What little good they'd do against all that nothing. But they were trained archers both, and through all their deepest fears their bodies remembered that one fact about themselves. Their hands stayed tight around their bows, and they ran, and ran, and ran.

The town, close. The gas lamps, count still off? They'd covered one mile in six minutes, five minutes, flying like the Devil was on the heels. Clint wasn't certain he wasn't.

"We need to tell Sheriff Rogers," Ms. Bishop panted as their feet hit the line. Clint slapped the gas lamp as he passed it. His hand rang with the force of his blow, metal singing beneath his skin. He didn't know if he struck it this time out of superstition or reproach.

"Tell him what?" Their footsteps slowed as they hit the path, gas lamps flickering off as the early summer sunrise breeched the horizon line. Clint didn't try counting them. "That we got scared of our own shadows like a couple kids."

"We didn't have shadows!" Ms. Bishop pointed out, something like hysteria shaking her voice. Clint took her shoulder in his hand and shook it, roughly. It was reassurance.

"We're not telling the sheriff jack shit, you hear me? Because there's nothing to tell. It was a coyote, or maybe even a couple Natives hoping to scare us white-folk away from their damn hunting grounds." Clint tilted his hat up and spit on the ground. His hand stayed wrapped around Ms. Bishop's shoulder. He didn't know who it was supposed to reassure, at this point. "Wouldn't blame them."

"But it wasn't something. It was _nothing_. Nothing out there. In the dark."

"Kids' stories," Clint mumbled.

"You know what you saw! Stop pretending like you didn't!" Viciously Ms. Bishop whirled, breaking Clint's grip on her shoulder. She turned away from the town, facing out into the darkness of the road they had just traveled. Clint's guts went icy with fear as he watched Ms. Bishop peer into the grey dawn. The sun was rising over their backs, over town. "Maybe I'll go back out there. See what it was," Ms. Bishop said. Threatened.

Clint grabbed her arm again and dragged her with him, ignoring her protests. She kicked at the ground and slapped at his hands. "Stop it, Katie," he growled.

" _You_ stop it! Stop pretending!"

They were almost in the town proper, finally. Mr. Maximoff's post services was one of the first businesses they passed. Clint saw him in the window, peering out curiously at the ruckus. One scowl from Clint and Mr. Maximoff's pale face was gone, disappeared like a whisper back into the post office. Clint scowled and adjusted his grip on Ms. Bishop, dragging her a little less meanly now that they were with civilization again. He gripped her elbow and they managed to walk onto Main Street (not 'Stark Street', Clint would eat horse shit before he called it that).

Finally they were in front of their store, the store they didn't have any new meat for. They'd end up losing money today. Clint let go of Ms. Bishop's elbow and sighed, scrubbing his hand through his hair. Maybe Ms. Bishop could go out and check their usual traps in an hour or so. Once it was truly light out. Once the morning sun burned off the last of the dew and mist and left only dry dust behind. You could trust dust. Never knew what was hiding in the mist or growing in the dew.

"Alright. Hey, listen: I'll mention it."

Ms. Bishop's eyes lit up, though the shape of them remained narrow in suspicion. "You will?"

"I'm not saying it was a... whatever you _think_ you saw."

"It was nothing," Ms. Bishop told him, eyes downcast.

"Yeah, exactly."

"No: it was _nothing_ ," Ms. Bishop repeated.

Clint's lips pressed together in a thin line, spine gone cold and knees like damn jelly. He'd faced down a grizzly in Montana before, he'd faced down a damn panther in Georgia, a gator in Florida. But this. Ms. Bishop was right. And it put the fear of God--or the Devil--into Clint unlike anything he'd ever seen before. Maybe because he hadn't seen it. 

"I know," Clint told her. Their eyes met, and then skittered away. Clint shoved at her, pushed her towards their shop. Their homes. "You get inside. Open up shop for me, alright? I'll be back." He hesitated, then: "You up for checking the traps? Later. Sun good and high."

Ms. Bishop--good, strong, too-brave and too-young and too damn smart Kate Bishop--jutted her chin out at Clint, clenched her jaw, straightened her spine. "Of course. We gotta have something to sell, don't we?"

Sighing like a death rattle, Clint collapsed against Ms. Bishop in a hug. "Good girl," he grumbled, shoving her away before people got the wrong ideas. He wiped at his face, his brow, his eyes. He smelled like fear-sweat. Ms. Bishop did, too, but it was... better, somehow. More honest. More flexible, like she was recovering from it already. Clint wasn't so durable.

He watched Ms. Bishop as she headed up to her apartment, bow still clutched tight in her hand. Sighing, Clint unstrung his and set it outside the shop. Ms. Bishop would pick it up for him when she opened up in a couple minutes. And wasn't anyone going to mess with a bow that clearly belonged to Clint Barton. Wiping his palms on his trousers, Clint turned back toward town. He squinted in the early-morning light. Right. He'd made a promise, and the sheriff's was just down the road. Clint trudge off, kicking up dust.

Against his better judgement, Clint found himself outside the Sheriff's office, rocking on the balls of his feet as he eyed up Liberty tethered outside. After a moment's consideration he reached out, patted her nose. "Good girl," he murmured. Liberty huffed at him. Clint straightened and faced the door again. Now or never.

Three quick raps, and Clint was ready to turn tail and run. But damned Sheriff Rogers was apparently always ready and waiting, because the door opened not five seconds after the last echo of his knock had faded away. Sheriff Rogers peered out at him, looking every inch the protector of the town he was supposed to be. And always managed to be, against all odds.

"Sheriff," Clint greeted him, tipping his hat.

Sheriff Rogers frowned. "Mr. Barton. Can I help you?"

And Clint stopped. And stared. What the hell was he supposed to tell the Sheriff? That him and Katie had gotten scared of their own damn shadows, out there in the dark of the plains? Clint swallowed, squinted out behind him at the town. With the sun shining on the horizon, town coming to life in pinks and golds, it seemed so stupid, now. So childish. He'd been talked into this.

"Mr. Barton? Something the matter?"

Clint shook his head, rubbed the back of his neck ruefully. "You know, I really don't think so, Sheriff. Sorry for wasting your time."

But as Clint made to turn away he was stopped by a hand on his elbow. The Sheriff pulled away almost immediately, but that brief contact had the desired effect of stopping Clint in his tracks. Staring down at him with that unusually trustworthy face of his, the sheriff prompted: "Mr. Barton? You're looking mighty pale for nothing."

Clint shivered, feeling an echo of that cold from the... from the nothing.

"You know, Sheriff: this is going to sound crazy, but..." Clint hesitated. Didn't want to sound too damn crazy. "Just... keep an eye out. There's something... nothing... something out there. Maybe. Ms. Bishop and I, we got spooked, and I don't know if it was nothing or not."

Sheriff Rogers looked at Clint for a long moment, eyes considered him with more seriousness than even Clint would have said he was due. After twenty, thirty seconds had passed, he asked: "Should I be hoping it's nothing? Or something?"

Clint met the sheriff's eyes. Somehow, he knew. The Sheriff knew, about all that... nothing. Clint shivered, shook his head. Wasn't sure if it was worse or better that someone else had felt it, someone else knew. He thought maybe it was worse.

"Anyway, just... I promised Ms. Bishop, I'd let you know. Good day, Sheriff."

"Good day, Mr. Barton."

Clint stretched his shoulders as he walked down Main Street, trying to get rid of that itch between them. As dawn broke on the town of Rescue, Clint's feet kicked up dust on his way back to Barton and Bishop's Game and Grocer's.

 


End file.
